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Prologue.
Drake
“Amos Montgomery died,” Phoe said, walking up to Drake and wrapping her arms around him.
“Who, baby?” Drake rumbled, looking confused.
“Amos Montgomery. Amos ran the bookshop down the road.”
“Monty, you mean?”
Phoe sighed. “Yeah, he’s not even that old, Drake. Only fifty-five.”
“Christ, how did he die?” Drake sounded shocked.
“Heart attack, from what Marsha heard. Amos was too young; his son is coming to organise the funeral and might sell the shop.”
“Shame that; some stuck-up fucker will probably buy it.” Drake frowned.
Drake’s problem was he liked their area as it was. There’d been a couple of high-class shops moving in, and their owners enjoyed sticking their noses up at anyone deemed unworthy. One, a designer clothes boutique, had upset Drake’s wife.
Phoe had entered the shop, wearing a Harley tee and jeans. The owner looked down her snotty nose and patronisingly suggested Phoe attend the Rage Store or Target. Phoe was dumbstruck for a few moments before introducing herself. Phoe had told the stuck-up bitch that she and her entire team at HQ would boycott the boutique. The shop remained there four months on but judging by the number of ‘reduced now’ sales she was holding, the business struggled.
“We’ll see,” Phoe mumbled.
Sinclair
I stood looking at the people who’d gathered around Dad’s grave, amazed at how many turned out to pay their respects. A tear trickled down my cheek, and I wiped it away. It was too hard to believe Dad was gone. He was only fifty-five! The priest droned on, and I peered in his direction. The preacher was entirely in his element, even though he hadn’t known my father. With a struggle to contain my sobs, I looked away and glanced at the crowd, none of them familiar. These were other shop owners and, strangely, an MC and ten to twenty further strangers.
Some of those present were customers, others I guessed acquaintances, and none were family. Dad and I cut them off years ago, and I had no idea where any of them were. A few people here were honestly distressed, which surprised me, considering Dad kept to himself. In keeping with tradition, I had organised a wake at Dad’s local bar, Hell’s Rage. The bookshop would have been too small. The Reading Nook was now mine. Dad signed it over last year, knowing his heart had begun to fail. Worried, I’d arranged book-keeping for Dad. An assistant made it so Dad could stay in his beloved store without stress.
With a shaking hand, I wiped away another tear. Dad lived an extra decade despite being told he only had a couple of years. The diagnosis was poor and shook my teenage world. I had been just thirteen when Dad was diagnosed, and doctors gave Dad twenty-four months. Dad fought and won ten. Without Dad, I felt lost; he’d insisted I live my life instead of staying home and looking after him.
A few months after the prognosis, I’d attended college at thirteen, a child prodigy. I graduated early from high school, finished college quickly, and went to university. At fifteen, I’d gone to Oxford in England. Four years later, when my schooling ended at the tender age of nineteen, I had earned my qualifications. Hard work meant I achieved a Bachelor of Arts in Literature, Classics, and Heritage Studies. I also received a BA in Business Management, Finance Management, and Computer Processing. Working hard gained me three Master’s Degrees in Literacy, Ancient History, and the Classics. Finally, I had a PhD in Ancient Art, Fine Art, and a final one in Archaeology.
So yeah, Dad had let me live the life I desired and encouraged me to stay at college and university. The hardest thing I’d ever done was leave him to go to England, but Dad once studied at Oxford, and I’d chosen to honour him. Oxford had been incredible, and I’d fallen in love with England but hurried home as soon as I graduated to be near Dad.
Except, Dad had not let me move home, instead he’d presented me with an apartment in Pierre, a couple of hours away. Luckily, my qualifications allowed me to find employment in a museum, happily researching, working in the archives, and being responsible for authenticating items. As a shy introvert, prone to avoiding crowds, the museum became a lifeline I excelled at. So, while I was happy people had come for Dad, I was worried about interacting with them.
Dad and I were close, but he kept his private life private. And I’d not met any of the attendees present today. I was especially surprised to see an MC paying their respects.
I looked down at my hands, aware I’d been twisting them frantically, and saw I’d shredded the handkerchief I’d been holding. Luckily, the white rose I’d brought Dad remained intact.
The priest finally stopped droning on, and mourners began passing me, not realising I was his daughter and throwing handfuls of dirt onto the coffin. I wandered past them and looked down at the casket containing my world. Heartbroken, I bit back a sob and crouched. Gently, I threw the rose on it, straightened in my heels, and walked to the car. At twenty-two and an orphan, I was alone.
Chapter One.
March 2015.
Sinclair
I’d not been one to party or drink in college and university, and I had never visited a bar. Dad frequented Hell’s Rage after he shut the shop and had his daily tipple there. My dad often spoke about the place, its owners, and crazy women folk. Father liked the bikers a bunch load, even though I imagined Dad kept his usual distance from people, and I’d learnt that from him.
I stared at the bar and twisted my hands again. Yes, I’d organised the wake here, but I’d have still preferred it to be in the bookshop. That couldn’t happen. The shop didn’t have room for that many individuals, so I was obligated to show my face in Hell’s Rage. Reluctantly getting out of my car, I noticed the sign that said closed for a private event and pushed open the door. The bar wasn’t what I expected, bare brick walls with neon signs and lots of pictures, a few posters, and a large, stained mirror. Chairs surrounded round and square tables, and the wooden floor was scuffed but spotless.
Two walls contained booths, and a mahogany carved counter (two men and a girl behind it serving) took up the opposite side. A long table full of food was in front of the enormous glass window. Many people sat or stood around talking quietly, holding plates. Unsure who to approach, I walked to the bar and ordered a diet coke. A tall guy fetched my order, wearing a leather waistcoat with emblems.
The badges read ‘Prospect’ above his left breast. Underneath, a second said ‘Jett’, and the club’s patch was on the right. Shamefully, I was ignorant around MCs even though I’d loved Sons of Anarchy. Still, I imagined most of that was rubbish, dramatised for the sake of viewers. Jett, I assumed the guy’s name was, turned his back to me. And I saw in a beautiful script ‘Rage MC’ at the top and a far bigger design of the patch. At the bottom were the words ‘Live to Ride.’ Under them, it said ‘Rapid City.’ It was super cool.
